


I keep asking God what I'm for

by ohmybgosh



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Cw: drugs, also barb lives, billy wants to be a drummer, i think the first theatrical version of little shop came out in 1982, loooook outtttt here comes friendship and a sense of belonging, only mentioned in passing and no one uses any but just in case!, powell is my new favorite character and i will fit him into everything, so we'll pretend the Hawkins middle school theater director is very proactive, sorry this is my 3rd favorite musical ever and 1st favorite i've been in, spoiler alert: i am pete, subtle Catholic Billy because i love that shit, theater kids!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 21:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmybgosh/pseuds/ohmybgosh
Summary: And he tells me, gee, I'm not sure!





	I keep asking God what I'm for

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ihni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihni/gifts).



> For my dearest Ihni, thank you thank you thank you for being a part of this movement and donating on my behalf <3 I hope this is everything you wanted, you kind and talented starling! 
> 
> If anyone is interested, RAINN is a really cool organization fighting sexual violence and assault. If you want to learn more, check out rainn.org and please please call their hotline if you or someone you know needs a professional to talk to: 800-656-HOPE (they also have live chat on their website). Stay safe!
> 
> Let me know what you think of this and as always you can find me via tumblr if you'd like to chat :)

With the windows open in the orange afternoon, his car idling beneath him, one hand on the wheel and one hand out the window, cigarette smoke making bold strokes against the lukewarm air, Billy skulked. 

Nerves were a bitch. He didn’t like to deal with nerves.

He checked the time; 5:15 PM. 

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was nervous; it wouldn’t make sense for Harrington to be there. But he had a habit of popping up where Billy least expected him.

5:16. He was late, should’ve been in the door at 5. 

He took his time finishing his cig, flicked the butt onto the ground at 5:19, rolled up his window, and stepped out of the car. 

He stood scowling in the parking lot for a moment. It was nearly empty but the lights of the middle school were bright, boisterous, the front doors decorated with paper flowers. Inside he could see someone hanging up posters in the entryway.

He scowled.

He took a deep breath and started towards the double doors.

The person hanging posters, taping one carefully to the wall, turned around when he pushed the doors open, smiling for a second then scowling when she recognized him. 

He couldn’t remember her name but he knew she was on the student council.

“Can I help you?”

Billy leaned against the wall, giving her a once over. She was nothing special, but a part of him just wanted to mess with her for the hell of it. 

_Smartass_. 

“Yeah,” he said slowly, grinning. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“I’m supposed to be serving my sentence here.” He tucked his hair behind his ear, looking at her through his eyelashes, licking his lips in the way that made most people squirm.

Dad said it was because he was a smartass; Susan said he wanted attention. 

“I don’t know what you mean -” she huffed. 

“Billy.” 

Nancy Wheeler slipped into the entryway, wearing a red sweater and crossing her arms across her chest, looking like one of those tiny yappy dogs that could take your nose off if it wanted to. His nextdoor neighbor had one of those dogs, and it didn’t like Billy, always barking its head off when he slipped out the back door to have a smoke. 

He’d never admit it to her, Nancy, but he’d always been kind of amazed at how simultaneously powerful and tiny she looked. 

“Wheeler.” He grinned at her. 

“You’re late.” 

“Got caught up, you know how it is.” He shrugged.

“Sure.” She turned, gesturing for him to follow. “You’ll be over here with Pete. Brick duty.” 

She led him through the hallway and through the doors to the gym, propped open with a folding chair. 

The middle school gym was lively, music playing from a boombox in the corner, a table laden with cookies and coffee, several other student council members he thought he recognized running around, sweeping the floor, struggling to untangle several feet of string lights. The stage was out (the gym doubled as the theater) and a handful of students were setting up props.

A guy sitting on the floor painted huge sheets of wood, looking far too enthusiastic for the task at hand.

“Brick duty?” Billy asked.

“Yep. With Pete. We want the flats done so they can dry over the weekend.”

Billy glanced over at Pete, the kid on the floor, nerdy looking guy, slowly and carefully painting lines on the wood and mouthing along to _Suspicious Minds_. 

“Isn’t there something else I can do?”

Nancy gave him a sharp look. “No. It’s Thursday, and these have to be done by tomorrow so they can dry. Pete needs the support.”

Billy rolled his eyes.

Nancy caught it and frowned at him. “Mr. Carter said you have to do twenty hours. The play’s in two weeks, so I figure you can do two hours each night.” She checked her watch. “You can leave tonight at 7:30.”

“Fine.” Billy scoffed. “There’s a paper -”

He pulled it out of his pocket and Nancy snatched it, tucking it away. 

“I’ll sign it when you finish your hours.” Nancy crossed her arms in response, straightening her posture and not breaking his eye contact. 

After a minute he snorted and looked away. 

He kind of, begrudgingly, admired her ferocity. It was funny, thinking of how strong Nancy made herself seem, and then thinking of her and Steve Harrington, how soft he could be, like he wore his heart on his sleeve. Steve was - unconventional, in Billy’s eyes. For a lot of reasons but mainly for how nervous he made Billy feel. 

“Is Harrington here?” He asked, nonchalantly picking at some dirt under his fingernails as if it didn’t matter to him.

“No?” Nancy narrowed her eyes at him.

“Cool. Good.” Billy focused on his nails. 

“Right...” Nancy was giving him a skeptical look, like a bird of prey wondering if the little field mouse it happened upon was worth the effort.

He wasn’t, everyone said so.

Jonathan Byers swooped in, neither a raptor nor rodent, rather a gentle sort of omnivore, like a hedgehog, camera dangling from his hunched shoulders. “Nance, Carly can’t find the extension cords.” 

He barely glanced at Billy, just gave him a short nod that Billy snorted at.

“I swear I showed her those weeks ago,” Nancy sighed. “Here, come with me.” She met Billy’s eyes and pointed at the flat on the floor, where - Pat? Pablo? - still happily painted. She then turned, a small hand grasping Jonathan’s elbow gently and steering him toward the bleachers, where a frantic girl dug through a plastic tub of tangled wires.

Billy stood for a second, debating turning away and just driving off. But he needed to get the paper signed. Carter had been clear about that; if Billy didn’t complete this stupid “alternative detention” he’d face suspension. He’d gotten a concussion after the meeting with Carter, who’d informed Billy’s dad the reason Billy was in detention, for getting caught drinking at school. It wasn’t fair, in Billy’s opinion, because half the basketball team was doing the same. But someone didn’t like Billy, or admittedly it could’ve been a number of someones, and thus he wound up in the principal's office with his backpack being dumped out in front of his dad. Funnily enough, the flask or the numerous packs of cigs didn’t make Dad as angry as the can of hairspray. Carter, the vice principal, who liked to comb his mustache and clean under his fingernails while he spoke, and had a soft side for “troubled youth”, as he put it, suggested Billy serve his detention in a more productive way. His dad, Billy could tell from the way his mustache bristled and his hands gripped the arms of the chair across from Carter, didn’t care for the decision. But his dad wasn’t one to pick a fight outside of his comfort zone; he much preferred to pick a fight in his own turf, with someone he knew he could fight and win, like Billy. Hence: the concussion. 

So, after a moment’s contemplation in the middle of the middle school gym, Billy headed towards the kid on the floor. 

The guy looked up when Billy stopped in front of him, glancing first at his scuffed boots and then up to his face, smile twitching for a moment and eyes going wide. 

“Hi,” he squeaked. 

Billy wrinkled his nose. 

“Supposed to help with bricks,” he said. 

The guy - Pat? Right? - looked like he might faint. “Oh! Oh, ok. Sure! Um, here, I can show you.” 

He waited awkwardly until Billy sighed heavily and took a seat beside him. 

“Go ahead,” he gestured at the flat, and the guy, who stared at him wide-eyed, jumped and almost dropped his paintbrush. 

“Right! Ok!” He pointed to the flat with his paintbrush. “So I’ve already done the base coats for all of them, this rusty red color. _Rust_ is actually the name of the color, isn’t that funny? And so now I’m doing the lines with this grayish color, hmmm, I can’t remember what that one’s called. But anyway, this is to outline the bricks, the mortar, y’know? And that’s what we’re finishing tonight, and then tomorrow we’ll sponge over it with some nice brownish paint, to make the bricks look weathered. Does that, um, make sense?” 

Billy stopped listening halfway through. He watched Nancy Wheeler, directing middle school students carrying a giant, empty flower pot to the middle of the stage. 

“Yep, perfect.”

“Ok, great! Here’s a brush for you, and just the gray paint there, yeah. And I’ve marked out the lines already with chalk, so just go over them - there you go!” 

The guy was smiling at him. He had fluffy blonde hair, and big brown eyes, bright behind thick glasses, looking far too much like an over-enthusiastic owl. 

Billy glanced longingly at his watch, only 6 o’clock. 

“I’m Pete, by the way,” the guy said brightly. “I don’t think we’ve officially met!”

“Cool,” Billy grunted. 

“Can’t wait to see the finished product,” Pete said happily. “Nancy’s been great, the middle schoolers are gonna love this. Isn’t it so nice that Student Council is helping put on the play for them? I think so. And the actors are great, even though they’re in middle school! Most are eighth graders, you know, but the shopkeeper - oh what’s his name? - anyway he’s in sixth grade and he’s fantastic. They’re so excited for opening night!”

It dragged on for another hour and a half; Pete chattering nonstop like one of those tiny screech owls, Billy nodding occasionally but mostly just ignoring him, painting stupid lines on stupid wood until his eyes started to blur. His stomach growled uncomfortably. He should’ve eaten dinner but he didn’t want to go home after basketball practice, instead killing time in his car and listening to tapes until he had to serve his sentence. 

It seemed like days later when Nancy appeared in front of him. Billy blinked at her feet, dainty Mary Jane’s, and looked up. 

“It’s 7:30,” she said, stifling a yawn. “We’re just going to clean up and head out, but you can leave now.”

Billy dropped the paintbrush in the bucket. He stood, brushed himself off, and made a beeline for the door. 

He broke into a run when he reached the parking lot, dark now, and skidded to his car, wrenching the door open and slamming it shut. 

He fumbled with his keys in his pocket, jamming them in the ignition and starting the engine, feeling it rumble to life. He stared out the windshield, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his hands turned bone white, and drew a shaky breath. 

_Smartass_ . He blinked, eyes burning. He didn’t know why he was so angry all of a sudden. _Cry baby._

He swallowed and turned on the stereo, shifting into drive and peeling out of the parking lot.

Stupid Carter. Stupid Pete, stupid play, stupid Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers and stupid Student Council. 

_Second chances_ , Carter had said. _Building character_.

 _I swear to God when we get home_ , Dad hissed as they walked out of the office, hand on Billy’s shoulder tightening with every step.

_You’ll what? Build my character?_

Smartass. 

He sped down the nearly deserted streets, rubbing his eyes angrily. He turned up the music, _Freewill_ filling the space around him so he could no longer hear the engine, the wind, his own ragged breathing. 

Neil Peart could always steady him. John Bonham, Roger Taylor, and Joey Kramer. Something about the drums, so full of violent life. But the good kind of violence, the kind that filled you with a dangerous high, with a reckless energy. Controlled violence, loud and chaotic and sweat and bloody knuckles, but not pain, or if pain than only ever the good kind of pain. 

In California he had a drum set, for a moment. He was fourteen and his neighbor sold it to him for twenty bucks and a bottle of prescription opioids he stole from Dad’s medicine cabinet. It was a shitty drum set, rusty and falling apart and likely had a rat at one point living in the bass drum. But he fixed it up the best he could, with duct tape and a whole lotta love, and it felt so special, so important, because it was his. He never learned how to play properly. When Dad saw it, it went in the dumpster. 

He’d lost a lot of things, though, and by now he’d learned not to grow attached to anything. 

“You’re late,” Nancy said as soon as he walked in the gym. It was day two of his alternative detention. 

Billy smirked, licking his lips. “Missed me?”

“It’s six, you’re supposed to be here at five.” She crossed her arms and scowled at him. She liked doing that, he noticed. “You can stay ‘til eight tonight and help clean up.”

Billy shrugged. “Anything you say, Nance.”

“Don’t call me that.” She turned on her heel and stomped away, stopping beside Byers, who was helping a middle schooler into their costume. 

“Hey! Billy!” 

He jumped, scowling down at the source of the noise. 

Pete was in his same spot, sitting cross-legged on the floor, paint-stained overalls on, pushing his huge glasses up his nose, a sponge in one hand, waving enthusiastically to Billy and grinning far too wide. 

Billy sighed deeply and walked over to him, sitting beside Pete and glancing at the huge can of paint, wondering briefly if hitting himself in the head with it would be enough to knock himself out cold for the next two hours. 

“Here, I’ll show you how to do the sponging, it’s a lot of fun!”

The minutes inched by Friday night just as slowly as they had the night before. Pete kept a constant stream of conversation that was easy enough to block out. 

“- Gosh, I miss theater. I remember being in _Bye Bye Birdie_ in eighth grade. Steve Harrington was in that one, he was Conrad Birdie, isn’t that funny?”

“What?” Billy dropped his sponge on the flat, paint splattering across the wood. 

“Hey, that’s a good technique!” 

“What did you say?”

“I like the technique you used, it spreads the paint much faster -”

“No, _Christ_ , before you were talking about Harrington. He was in theater?”

“Oh! Yeah,” Pete nodded. “He’s got a nice voice! I think he quit in high school because he wanted to play basketball instead.”

“Huh.” Billy picked up his sponge, lips twitching. Steve Harrington, in theater. Singing. Why did that thought make his heart skip a beat?

He could feel Pete eyeing him with interest. 

“You guys are friends, right?” Pete asked curiously. “He’s a nice guy.”

Billy scoffed. “Me and Harrington? No. Not friends.”

“Oh? Sorry, I assumed you were, playing basketball together and all.” Pete blinked at him earnestly, owlishly. “I’m sorry about that.”

Billy raised his brow. “It’s fine.”

Pete nodded, silent for a moment, for the first time. 

Billy coughed. “Are you, um, friends with him?”

“Me?” Pete smiled. “No, not really. He’s so nice though! I know he and Nancy are really close.”

“Didn’t they break up?” Billy asked sharply.

“Yes! But they’re still friends; Nancy talks about him all the time. Sometimes he helps out with events, even though he’s not on Student Council.”

Billy felt his face heat up. “That’s nice.”

“It is. It’s good that they’re friends. I know he’s very important to Nancy.”

“You seem to know a lot of things,” Billy mumbled.

“Ha! Wait,” Pete tilted his head at him. “Were you being sarcastic?”

Billy waved his hand at him. “Never mind.”

Pete started off again, listing all the plays he’d been in, which ones were his favorites, all the plays he’d seen, and somehow - Billy stopped really listening about a minute in - got onto the subject of his grandmother and baking. 

Steve Harrington. Singing. On stage, in a costume, wearing makeup, _singing._ The bricks in front of Billy blurred - he didn’t eat dinner again, didn’t go home - and he tried to picture what Harrington would look like under those bright lights, what his voice sounded like. 

It felt too warm all of a sudden. He shrugged his jacket off. 

“Hey, look at that!” Pete exclaimed. Billy flinched.

“We’re done! Perfect timing, almost eight, wow, time really flies doesn’t it? This is great, we’ll leave these to dry over the weekend and then we can put them up on Monday!”

Pete picked up the paint can and sponges. “Want to help me rinse these out?”

Billy glanced over his shoulder. Nancy was on stage, with a group of middle schoolers, who must’ve been the cast, helping one girl who looked like the lead, take off a ridiculous blonde wig that had gotten caught in her hair. 

“You know,” he said slowly. “I should probably get going. Got places to be, y’know what I mean?”

Pete nodded. “Gotcha! Well, thanks for all your help!”

“Yup.” Billy was already heading to the door. “See ya Monday night.”

Pete, to Billy’s dismay, jogged to catch up with him. “Monday night? You won’t be in class?”

“Huh?” Billy fished in his pocket for his keys, half paying attention. 

“In - in Pre-Calc?”

Billy stared at him. 

“Oh,” Pete nodded, cheeks blossoming pink. “Ok. See you later.”

He went back into the gym, head hanging slightly.

“Sure,” Billy shrugged, squinting at him in confusion. He shook his head after a minute and headed outside.

Pulling into his driveway, he sat in his car for several minutes, staring at the small house. A few lights glowed from indoors, the kitchen, the blueish flicker of the the television in the living room, a tiny light from Max’s room. 

He sat there for another moment, hoping the TV would turn off. It didn’t, so he cut the engine and hopped out of the car, walking slowly to the front door. 

It was unlocked; he pushed it open carefully, wincing at the creaks, and shut it gently behind him. He poked his head into the kitchen; no one there, but a telling crumpled candy wrapper on the counter. Max was awake. He opened the fridge, searched for a minute and peeled a couple slices of bright orange American cheese from the package.

He tiptoed into the living room, glancing at the couch as he went by. Dad snored softly, hand dangling an inch from the floor, a half-empty beer bottle spilling and soaking into the carpet. Regan, looking small and staticky, was on the old television, mouthing silently as Billy crept by. 

He headed for the back door, easing it open and standing on the termite eaten back porch. 

Without fail, he heard the flap of the doggie-door from over the neighbors fence, the tiny _huffs_ and weeny paws skittering across the ground towards him. He heard the little mutt draw a breath, ready to release a high pitched _YIP_ that could wake the whole neighborhood, but Billy was ready; they’d tangoed before. He flung the cheese over the fence like a flying saucer, listened as the dog bound away after it. 

He sat down on the soft wood, draped the second slice of cheese on one knee, and lit a cigarette. He pulled his knees into his chest. 

He closed his eyes and listened. The dog dug about in the neighbors yard, the wind shook the branches of the trees behind the house, and when it died he could hear the leaves fluttering, the grass swaying. Sometimes, if he listened hard enough, he thought he could hear cars on the highway; the lucky ones, just passing through, just going by, leaving Hawkins. 

This was his favorite time, these precious few minutes of silence when he almost felt like he could wink right out of existence. 

He heard a creak from the house and jumped. A small shape passed in front of the tiny light in the window above, just Max. 

He looked out at the backyard. Max’s rusty bike his Dad promised to fix months ago lay in the middle of the yard, the pedals glued to the muddy ground. The second-hand grill they’d never used had leaves from last autumn stuck under the hood. There were two overturned trash cans in the corner that the neighborhood racoons called home. Random things; a smashed coffee pot, a chipped drumstick, chicken bones, a bent hammer, a bloody towel, cigarette butts and beer bottles and broken records. All the things they hid, all the trash, piled in the backyard. But in the front, they shovelled the snow, they washed the cars, they mowed the lawn, waved to the neighbors, picked up the morning paper, and put out the garbage on Sundays. 

The door slid open behind him and he swore, dropping his cigarette, spinning around, heart racing. 

“Sorry,” Max hissed. “I heard something outside.”

“Go away.” Billy lit another cigarette, ignoring Max’s indignant cough. 

She closed the door, though, and stood beside him, swimming in her real, biological, dad’s old slippers, her flannel pajama pants and _Star Wars_ t-shirt. 

“It’s cold,” she whispered. 

“So go inside.” 

“Is that cheese?”

“No, it’s a caprese salad.”

“Fuck off.” 

He blew smoke up at her and she wrinkled her nose, wafting it away with her hand. 

“I hate you.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “What’s it for?”

“The dog.” He exhaled, watching the smoke curl. 

“You’re a dickhead.”

“I’m serious.” It took five minutes to smoke a cig, at least his brand, Marlboro Reds. It took the dog seven to eight minutes to find the cheese in the dark. He tapped his ear. “Listen.”

“What -”

“Shut up. You hear that?”

Max huffed. She stayed silent, however, and after a moment they could hear the dog, finishing up it’s Kraft Single and trotting back to their side of the fence. 

He handed Max the cheese. “Fling it like a frisbee, gets the most air.”

“You’re weird.”

“Do it quick, before it starts barking.”

“Fine.” She stepped towards the fence, drew her arm back and flung the cheese into the neighbor's yard. The dog scrambled after it. 

Max giggled. 

“Nice throw.” 

“Thanks.” Max sat down beside him. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Nope.” 

“I am,” she said. 

“So go inside.”

Max shivered, and looked longingly at the door, but stayed put. “Will says you’re helping with the middle school play.”

Billy shrugged. 

“He’s in it. His brother’s helping too.”

“I know.” 

“How come you’re helping?” Max asked, teeth chattering. 

“Girls love theater guys.” 

“Gross.” Max frowned. She eyed him suspiciously. “That’s all?”

Billy sighed heavily. “Go inside, Max, it’s freezing out here.”

“You’re out here,” Max said indignantly.

“Yeah, well I’m your big brother, and I can do whatever the hell I want.” He finished his cigarette and snuffed it out on the deck. “So do what I say and go inside. Or else.”

“I hate you,” Max hissed. She stood and stomped to the back door, pulling it open. “And you’re _not_ my brother, asshole.” 

She slammed the door behind her. Billy winced. 

Saturdays should’ve meant sleeping in, but there were always things for Billy to do. Like the lawn, which came knocking at 6 AM, jolting Billy awake from a pleasant dream about Steve Harrington singing Elvis Presley. 

The lawn wouldn’t wait, and more importantly, neither would Dad, so he pulled himself out of bed and dressed sleepily. 

It was a cool spring morning. He didn’t have any sort of coat, but he pulled his moms old fleece on, crammed a worn Lakers beanie over his head and stumbled out the door. 

Half the grass done and an hour later, fingers starting to blister, Max came outside, still in her pajamas, drinking coffee and eating toast. She liked drinking coffee, black, because she thought it made her mature. Susan secretly gave her decaf. 

“Hey,” she called, mouthful of peanut butter toast.

“Whatdya want.” Billy wiped sweat off his forehead, shutting off the mower.

“Can you drop me off at the movies today?”

“No.” He turned back to the lawn. 

“Why, what are you doing?”

“Fuck off.”

“Screw you.” She crammed the rest of the toast in her mouth and swallowed thickly. “Mom’s working and Neil said to ask you.”

“Fine,” Billy groaned. He kicked the mower back to life. 

“I’ll be here at eight,” he called as Max climbed out of the car later that night. “I’m only waiting for five minutes, otherwise you can walk home.”

She flipped him off and ran into the movie theater, where her friends stood waiting, the Byers kid, some girl he didn’t recognize, and Henderson bouncing up and down in excitement, and little Wheeler and Lucas Sinclair staring at Billy through the windows, their nosy noses fogging up the glass. 

He waved to them, snorting when they jumped. 

He went to pull out a cig, found he was dry, and headed to the corner store a block away. 

He went straight for the counter, nothing else on his mind. 

“Pack of Marbs,” he said, flashing a grin at the woman behind the counter. She passed it over, and he winked at her, tossing his cash onto the counter, and turned to leave.

He froze. 

Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, Barb Holland, and Steve Harrington were standing in front of the ice cream cooler, staring at him. 

Steve cradled a carton of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in his arms like a newborn baby, wore a striped turtleneck tucked into his jeans, eyes slightly red like he’d been drinking, hair a mess, and looked, to Billy, absolutely adorable. 

_Say something, smartass._

He opened his mouth; Steve bit his lip, and Billy lost his voice. 

“Um,” Nancy said. “Hi.”

Billy just nodded. 

“Having a good weekend?” she asked. Steve laughed, it turned into a hiccup halfway through, and Nancy elbowed him. 

“Whatever.” He backed out the front door, clutching his cigs to his chest tightly. 

“Who left a shit on his doorstep?” Barb stage whispered. 

He darted out the door, climbing into his car and slamming the door. 

His heart pounded, and he watched as Steve and Barb fumbled about inside, laughing and falling over each other, while Nancy shepherded them to the counter and Jonathan stood by, laughing.

He felt his chest tighten. 

He ducked down in his seat when the four left the corner store, Nancy and Jonathan holding hands and Barb and Steve following, weaving slightly. Steve and Barb had already started digging into the ice cream with their fingers, and Barb burst into laughter when Steve dropped a glob of cookie dough on his jeans. 

They didn’t even notice him, didn’t even glance at his car.

“You two are ridiculous,” Nancy sighed, but she smiled at Jonathan, who was unlocking Steve’s car - Billy was an idiot, he should’ve seen it before. 

They climbed in, Jonathan behind the wheel, Nancy in the passenger seat and Barb and Steve fighting over the ice cream in the back. 

“Hand over the goods, Harrington,” Barb tugged the ice cream away from Steve.

“Do we still have booze?” he asked, trying to grab it back from her. 

“Back at your place, remember?”

“Oh yeah, HA! Mom won’t even notice it’s gone.”

“Barb, buckle up.”

“Yes, Mumsy.”

“Shut it.” Nancy smiled at her affectionately. “Steve, close your door so we can go.”

“Sorry!” He yanked the door shut and Jonathan slowly pulled out onto the street, brake lights disappearing as they gathered speed. 

Billy still sat there, staring at the space Steve’s car had been. He gripped the steering wheel so hard it hurt. He let out a sharp breath and blinked furiously. 

_Cry baby._

John Bonham, he thought, John Bonham he needed, and he found the tape, shoved it in the deck and turned the music up so loud that _Black Dog_ drowned out his gasping breaths.

God, why was he so angry, such a cry baby all the time? He wanted to kick himself. 

He put his head back, pounded his fists on the steering wheel, and squeezed his eyes shut, tears running down his cheeks, turning icy in the cool night air.

Sunday passed with Billy spending most of the day patching up the chipped paint around the house, flicking Max with the paintbrush whenever she tried to hang out with him until she finally stomped inside, eyes watering. 

Monday came too quickly. Billy dragged his feet in the high school hallway, idling outside his first class. He hadn’t done his homework, had forgotten his Pre-Calc book in his locker on Friday and didn’t feel like calling anyone in his class. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure any of them would help him. 

When the final morning bell rang he stepped into the classroom, readying himself, painting a smirk across his face. He found his seat, winked at a brunette who sat beside him and blushed. He pulled his textbook and some lined paper out of his backpack, thinking he’d scribble something down quick, when he felt someone’s eyes at the back of his head. 

He spun around. 

Pete - the theater kid - blinked at him from behind those overly large glasses. His face heated up and he ducked his head. 

“Shit. Hi.”

“Hey,” Pete squeaked. 

“I didn’t realize you were in this class.”

Pete bit his lip. “It’s ok.”

Billy turned back around in his seat, twisting a pencil in his hands. A weird feeling churned in his gut.

“Billy!” Pete caught up to him after class, jogging beside him in the hallway. “Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yeah, great.” Billy stopped at his locker, hoping Pete would shuffle along, but he stood waiting as Billy unlocked the locker and switched his Pre-Calc for Biology, Pete bouncing up and down on his heels. 

“That’s good! Mine was pretty boring.”

“Ok.”

“Yeah! So, you’re coming tonight, right?”

“I-” Billy turned to face Pete, shutting his locker, and his throat closed up. Steve Harrington walked down the hallway towards them, a tight t-shirt tucked into faded jeans, thumbs hooked under his backpack straps, grinning at something one of the basketball team members was saying to him. Billy’s heart skipped a beat, for a wild moment he thought Steve was coming towards him. But he passed by, still smiling, glancing once at Billy and Pete, looking the tiniest bit confused. He kept walking, though, and Billy was pulled back to earth by Pete.

“Billy? Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” he snapped. Pete frowned. “Fine, sorry. I’ll be there tonight - I have to be.”

“Oh, yeah,” Pete’s eyes widened. “Detention, I forgot.” 

To Billy’s dismay, he fell into step beside Billy as he headed to his next class. 

“How long is that gonna last?” Pete chirped. 

“Two weeks,” Billy grumbled.

“Oh cool! So you’ll be with us for opening night! I can’t wait, the kids are doing so well!”

Billy shook him off by his next class, groaning internally when Pete said, “See you tonight!”

The day passed too slowly for Billy. Biology was boring, British Literature even more so, and U.S. History was terrible because Steve sat two seats in front of him, and the muscles in his back that flexed when he stretched, the freckles dusting his arms, and the soft brown hairs that curled at the base of his neck were far too distracting for Billy to learn anything new about the Emancipation Proclamation. 

Soon, it was afternoon, and then it was evening, and Billy found himself again in the middle school gym. The actors were there, Will Byers included, who stared at Billy in awe like he was some kind of alien. 

Nancy was tangled in a set of string lights when Billy arrived, Barb trying to help her make sense of the mess. Jonathan was there too, helping his brother with lines and giving Billy the same bewildered look. 

He didn’t see Pete anywhere. Everyone who passed gave him a surprised or disgusted look, but nobody spoke to him. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, wondering if it was possible to leave unseen. 

But then Barb spotted him, eyes narrowing behind her glasses, and she leaned in to whisper to Nancy, whose eyes found Billy. She looked annoyed and waved him over. 

“- some sort of _community service_ ,” Nancy hissed as he got closer. Barb made a “tch” sound. 

“Hey,” Nancy sighed. “You can help Pete again. He’s sewing the plants together.”

“Um,” Billy raised his eyebrows. 

“Onstage.” Nancy gestured in the vague direction. “Jonathan can help you find him.”

“Gotcha.”

They started whispering again once he turned away. 

Jonathan and his brother looked mortified when Billy approached them. 

“Seen Pete anywhere?” Billy asked. Will stared at him with a terrified curiosity, eyes wide and cheeks pink, and Jonathan wouldn’t meet his eyes, his shaggy hair covering his face like a curtain. 

He mumbled something about a plant and Billy sighed impatiently.

“Hello?” he snapped, drawing every word out slowly in frustration. “Pete. Have. You. Seen. Him.”

“Here I am!” 

Pete popped up like a prairie dog from behind a giant pile of green fabric, waving enthusiastically. 

“Thanks a bunch,” Billy said, patting Jonathan on the shoulder, who flinched. 

“Hey! You’re helping me again tonight? Great!” Pete said breathlessly when Billy approached. “We’re sewing all this green onto the plants! You haven’t seen the puppets yet, right? Oh boy, I can’t wait till you see, they’re awesome!” 

He trailed on, and Billy trailed behind him, no longer listening, wishing he was anywhere else, counting away the minutes until he could leave, wondering what Steve Harrington was up to, and trying not to think about Steve licking chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream off his own finger. 

The rest of the week passed in much of the same way. He went to school, went to practice, went to detention, went home. The days, the week, dragged on, like a snail pulling a carriage. By Tuesday, he could recite all the plays Pete had worked on, by Wednesday almost every member of student council had called him an asshole or asked him what he was doing there with a grimace on their face as if he smelled like a dead rat. By Thursday, he’d poked himself with a sewing needle so many times that his fingers were swollen, and by Friday he knew all the words to _Skid Row_. Only two things got him through the week without punching a hole in a wall: one - Steve Harrington sitting in front of him in class or passing by in the hallway or accidentally brushing against Billy in the locker room, and two - the few minutes of silence at the end of the night on the back porch afforded by slices of cheese and the ravenous dog next door.

“I don’t get why we can’t be friends, you and me.” It was Friday night, six days before the show. 

Billy stood at the fence, peeking over into the neighbor’s yard and at the little terrier, slice of cheese at the ready. 

The dog tilted its head, eyes following the cheese that wobbled like sheet metal from Billy’s fingers. 

“I just need some peace and quiet,” Billy continued. “And you get to eat your little heart out. Can’t we work together here?”

The little dog snuffled, bared its teeth, and filled its tiny chest with air, a high pitched BARK threatening the silent night. 

Billy pulled his arm back, Kraft in hand, ready to knock it out of the park like Cy Young, when a voice shouted; “Hold it right there!”

The dog went mad, yapping as if its life depended on it. 

Billy dropped the cheese and stumbled back. He swore, made to dart inside, when a face appeared above the fence separating the two yards. 

The neighbor was short, about as tall as Billy, and only the top of his head, dark eyes, round nose, and beginning bristles of a thick black mustache appeared above the top of the fence. 

Billy froze. 

“So you’re the one who’s been giving Scotty diarrhea.” 

Billy swallowed.

“He’s lactose-intolerant, by the way.” 

The neighbor disappeared. Billy heard a “c’mere, Scott” and a grunt, followed by the dog’s silence. 

He reappeared, dog in his arms, licking the man’s hand, pausing to glance up and bare his tiny teeth at Billy.

The neighbor scratched the dog’s scrappy head affectionately. He turned a watchful eye to Billy, squinting at him in the dark, still frozen in place. 

“Sorry I scared ya,” the neighbor said, voice deep and husky, but soft at the same time. “You alright, kid?”

Billy flinched. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him “kid”, and it hit a painful note deep within him.

“Fine,” he said hoarsely. 

“Sure?” The neighbor looked up at Billy’s house, eyeing the light that had turned on in his dad’s and Susan’s room. 

“Should get inside,” Billy murmured. 

“S’ late,” the neighbor agreed, eyes narrowing at the bedroom light from above. “Well, kid, anytime you wanna feed Scotty a real dog treat - you know where to find us.”

“Thanks.” Billy backed towards the house. The neighbor watched him, kind, curious, and concerned. The neighbor turned only when the backdoor to his home opened; a lanky looking figure stood sleepily in too-small pajamas, rubbing his eyes and calling, “Montgomery?”

“Got him!” The neighbor called over his shoulder, and Billy darted inside, sliding the door shut and pulling the curtains down. He leaned against the backdoor, heart pounding. 

It didn’t quiet, certainly not when heavy footsteps stomped down the stairs, certainly not until he crawled into his bed, ribs aching and starting to bruise, and pressed his face into his pillow, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood because he didn’t want anyone to hear him cry. 

When his heartbeat found a normal rhythm he put a tape in his stereo, turning the music down so low, just one notch above dead silence. He sat on the floor with his ear pressed to the speaker. 

He closed his eyes, held his breath, and listened to _Drowse_ , to Roger Taylor, slow, symbols deliberate and making his eyes dry and feel heavy. He let the song fill him up and he thought about the neighbor, the dog Scotty, and the man in his pajamas at the back door. 

It was Monday, three nights before opening night, when Billy had come home after theater. He came home late, because their first dress rehearsal went over and there had been a problem with the string lights, so he helped Pete replace all the blinked out bulbs. Coming home late was a gamble - sometimes it didn’t make a difference, sometimes it made all the difference in the world. It depended on what mood his Dad was in, what had happened that day.

It was a bad mood that night, and afterwards Billy stumbled out the front door, car keys shaking in his hand, knuckles bright red and bloody. He was at his car door when he stopped, movement from next door catching his eye. Lights were on, the front door open apart from a screen. The night, warm and sticky, hummed with insects, scuttling about in the fresh spring grass, the breeze tickled the leaves on the trees and the air smelled like new life. Jazz music played from inside the home. A shadow moved across a window.

He didn’t realize where his feet were carrying him until the wood of the neighbor’s porch creaked under his shoes. He looked at his feet, blurry, watery. He lifted a bloody hand, keys still clutched tight, and hesitated. It all seemed off. The neighbors front lawn was overgrown and brown in spots, paint chipping on the porch, the screen door frayed in places. But inside seemed merry, bright and inviting. 

He took a step back, and the wood creaked loud enough to hear over soft jazz. From inside he heard tiny paws scrabbling across hardwood floor, and then there was little Scotty, yapping shrilly, incessantly at him through the screen so loud and so fast he seemed to blur into one angry ball of fur. 

“ _Scotty_!” A voice snapped. The neighbor came charging, stopping when he saw Billy through the screen. 

“Oh shit,” he breathed. “Hey, kid, are you alright?” 

Billy couldn’t find his voice. Scotty seemed to be sucking up all the sound, barking himself hoarse. 

“Scotty, shut the hell up,” the neighbor scooped up the dog and he went silent. “Neurotic little shit.”

He reached out with his free hand and pulled the screen door open. “You wanna come in?”

Billy glanced over at his house, the bright green lawn trimmed precisely, the paint fresh on the porch. He nodded, letting his feet carry him through the doorway. 

The home was small, smaller than Billy’s house, but somehow seeming bigger. The furniture was mismatched, random pieces worn like they were heirlooms. There were tons of plants, in every window, and a bright vase of sunflowers sat in the middle of a small dining room table, with two chairs, and a half eaten bowl of spaghetti at one end. There was a decent stereo system, with a mouth-watering collection of records. Beside that, a small piano sat, sheet music wrinkled and dog-eared like that particular song had been played fondly. Pictures, framed and slightly dusty, hung around the walls; the neighbor and his parents, potentially; many of a beautiful young woman and a baby girl; a few of a goofy looking man with thick glasses and curly hair, holding Scotty with a bow tied around his collar, eating an ice cream cone, standing with a scowl and his arms crossed with a Santa hat crammed over his fluffy hair. 

“My sister,” the neighbor said, setting Scotty down on the floor. Scotty scampered off into the kitchen. The neighbor straightened, gesturing at the pictures of the young woman. “And that’s my niece. My sis, uh, sends a lot of pictures.”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I’m Calvin, by the way. You can call me Cal, or whatever you like.”

He glanced at Billy’s hand, the blood drying there. “You ok?”

Billy nodded, clearing his throat, the lie coming easily. “Fell on the pavement.”

“Ok,” Cal said slowly, looking skeptical. “Um, bathroom’s round the corner, to the left, if you need it.”

Billy nodded again, following the instructions the the bathroom. The first door, on the right, stood ajar, and he saw a queen sized bed, sheets rumbled and unmade with a quilt crumpled over the top. There was a _Star Trek_ poster on the wall, and two different sets of slippers beside the bed, one pair several sizes larger than the others. 

He swallowed thickly and turned to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. It was small, the toilet seat was up, and a basket of seashells sat on the windowsill beside a cactus. 

He rinsed his hand under the cool water, wincing at the pain. Sometimes he tried to pretend his knuckles were bloody from playing the drums. Mostly, though, that didn’t work.

Tonight it didn’t, and he stood at his neighbor Cal’s sink for several minutes, the cold water numbing his hand. He looked at his face in the mirror and was a little bit shocked that he was crying. He hadn’t realized. 

He shut the water off and dried his hand with a floral towel hanging by the sink, which was angry red but no longer bleeding. He dried his face too, poking under his eyes as if to deflate the puffiness. 

He steeled himself and walked out of the bathroom, heading back into the living room. Cal was sitting at the table, finishing up his spaghetti and drinking a glass of red wine, Scotty under his feet sniffing around for scraps. 

He looked up, giving Billy a nervous but gentle smile. 

“Have a seat, if you’d like.”

“Thank you, sir.” Billy sat. 

Cal made a face. “Call me Cal, we’re neighbors.”

Billy nodded. 

Cal took a sip of wine, eyeing Billy from across the table. “I’d offer you a glass, but I’m a cop.”

His mouth twitched under his moustache and Billy smiled slowly. He couldn’t tell if Cal was joking or not.

“Think I have some cookies, though,” Cal said thoughtfully. “Or spaghetti, if you’re hungry?”

Billy hadn’t eaten since lunch. His stomach clenched painfully, and something other than hunger hurt his gut, too. 

“I’m alright,” he started, just as his stomach growled aloud. 

“I could go for some cookies,” Cal said, standing, his chair scraping against the floor. Scotty leapt up and followed him into the small kitchen, jumping at his heels.

“Had some leftover from Easter, when my sister came to visit,” Cal called from the kitchen, searching in his cupboards. “ _Alright_ , you nosy dog, you can have something too.”

Cal found the cookie tin with a “ha!”, grabbed a handful of Milkbones from a box on the counter, and returned to the table, tossing a biscuit on the floor. He sat down, pushing the tin toward Billy after pulling out one of those pretzel shaped ones. 

Billy slowly took out a shortbread, taking a small bite and fighting the urge to shove a handful of cookies in his mouth.

“Sorry they’re a little stale.”

Billy shook his head, taking another bite. “They’re good.”

Cal smiled at him. Billy liked his smile; just lips, slight dimples, moustache curling happily, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Do you like it here?” Cal asked after a moment. “Y'all are fairly new in town.”

Billy looked away, eyeing the kitchen, the sink piled high with floral dishes that looked like hand-me-downs, the hand-crocheted pot holders hanging from a bright yellow cabinet with chipped paint, to the open window with a glass turtle figurine sitting on the sill, gazing across the lawn and a lively vegetable garden, peeking over the fence at the neighbors house - at Billy’s house. 

Cal’s home was quiet, muted like being under a warm blanket. He and Scotty chewed cookies and regarded Billy, not impolitely, just intrigued. The jazz played soft and gentle, evening birds chirped in the trees outside, calling each other back to the nest. 

At Billy’s house silence smothered every nook and cranny, deafening, like a dark forest, like the footfall that snapped a twig and sent even the insects, the creepy crawlies and scuttle bugs, scattering scared into their hidey holes. 

The scant light from outside shone distorted through the glass turtle and a lump rose in Billy’s throat. 

“It’s ok,” he said hoarsely. 

Cal nodded. If he noticed the redness in Billy’s eyes, he said nothing, just offered him another cookie. “Not much to do around here.”

“Not much,” Billy agreed, picking up a lemon cookie. 

“You do anything at school?” 

“Basketball.” He shrugged, took a bite of the cookie. “And theater.”

“Theater.” Cal made a sound almost like a whistle. 

Billy’s lips quirked. “Guess I don’t look like the type.”

Cal smiled kindly. “What type is that?”

Billy looked down at his lap. What type was that? What _type_ was he. His dad had words, hard, harsh consonants that he said with bared teeth, spitting it out like it was bile that bubbled up and burned his throat, coated his mouth with acidity. In school, other kids had words that they whispered behind their hands, giggling not at Billy because he made sure they, at least, wouldn’t call him that, but at others, throwing around those words as an insult, worse even than being called a girl. Strangers on the street, people he knew but barely knew, gossiped, cringing away from the words as if they carried diseases, as if diseases could be caught from a rumor in the dairy aisle of the local grocery store. 

Cal spoke after a minute. “Doesn’t really matter, right? Anybody can be any type, doesn’t matter, doesn’t change the weather. Just gotta find what makes you happy.”

He picked up another cookie, looked at it thoughtfully. 

Billy left an hour later, after dusting off the last of the cookies with Cal, tempting a tail wag from Scotty with a Milkbone, and taking a tour of Cal’s vast record collection. At the door, Cal told him to come visit anytime, and Billy walked slowly back home feeling something akin to happiness, and wondering how long the feeling would last.

Tuesday’s rehearsal, two nights before the show, was a bit of mess, Nancy said, but she had “faith tomorrow will be better!” When she said this, as everyone gathered on stage, actors struggling out of their costumes, student council members cleaning up, one handing Billy a huge broom to sweep up the stage fodder with, she looked haggard, her hair falling loose from a bow, skirt slightly twisted, and tear in her stockings, but hopeful, her eyes bright under the spotlight. 

“Hey! You’ll be at the first show!” Pete exclaimed, as they walked out together at the end of rehearsal that night, Pete falling into step beside Billy, Billy slowing down to wait for him subconsciously. 

“Yeah, my last day,” Billy nodded.

“Wow,” Pete whistled. “That went by fast, huh?”

“It did,” Billy agreed, and it did. He thought the weeks would drag on, and at the time it seemed they had. But now, tomorrow, it was over, and it passed suddenly too fast, and a part of him ached a bit at the thought of going back to spending his evenings entirely alone.

“Are your parents coming to the show?” Pete asked curiously. 

They reached Billy’s car, and stopped, Pete shouldering his backpack, glancing across the lot at his own tiny Jetta. 

Billy snorted. “Hell no.”

Pete looked curious and Billy shrugged.

“Not their thing,” he explained. 

Pete nodded . “Did you invite your friends?”

Billy looked at his feet, the scuffs on his well-worn boots, each shifting in their soles. 

“No,” he said, voice too hoarse. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. He could tell Pete, couldn’t he? Pete wouldn’t make fun him, had never laughed or called him an asshole or whispered about him behind his back. “I don’t really have any friends.”

Pete blinked at him from behind those thick glasses, big brown eyes shiny.

“We’re friends,” he said. 

“I -” Billy stopped, caught off guard. “Yeah.”

Pete smiled, whole face lighting up even in the dark. “I’m glad. And Nancy, too. I know she can be stern, but she does like you, she always says how glad she is to have your help.”

Billy blinked at him. “She does?”

“Mhmm,” Pete nodded. “We all are! I’ll be sad to see you go.”

Billy looked at his feet, face feeling hot. “I - I’ve been thinking. Maybe, y’know, if you guys ever need an extra hand, or whatever.”

Pete looked as though he might fall over in excitement.

“Really?” he exclaimed. “That would be wonderful!”

Billy laughed, feeling it warm his whole body, make his cheeks ache. 

“Great.” He gave Pete a light punch on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“See ya!” Pete skipped off towards his car. 

Billy watched his friend go for a moment, feeling a mixture of things. He felt warm, real warmth, and again if the feeling would last, and what on Earth he’d done to deserve it. 

Wednesday’s rehearsal, the last one before opening night, was chaotic. 

The main actress broke into tears when she forgot a whole verse of a solo. The smallest plant puppet went missing, and several students had a shouting match over who had it last, only to discover the props manager, in a sleepless stupor the night before, had brought it into the bathroom, wasting no time to finish stitching in the puppet’s teeth, and forgotten it on the back of the toilet. The string lights started blinking out again, and the actor playing the shopkeeper accidentally used a permanent marker instead of black eyeliner to draw on his fake moustache. Nancy was a blur of movement all night, running back and forth on stage, getting her hands in anything and everything that needed fixing.

Billy arrived an hour early, as basketball got cancelled, and ended up staying an hour late. He dashed behind Pete the entire time, helping change the bulbs again, rescuing Pete from nearly falling off a ladder and _literally_ breaking a leg, doing anything that needed to be done, from mouthing a line to poor Will Byers that the kid kept forgetting, to helping Barb mix up a bucket of makeshift fake blood, using multiple bottles of chocolate syrup and red food coloring.

When he finally left, with his hands stained red and voice hoarse from shouting at the townspeople who kept missing their cues, he felt exhausted, but oddly content. It was chaos, but he felt accomplished, like after a good game; he felt elated, like after listening to an exceptionally good song. 

It was a strange feeling. But not a bad one. 

Cal was sitting on his front porch when Billy pulled into the driveway, smoking a cigarette, and he waved when Billy stepped out of his car. 

Billy glanced at his own house for a minute, the television lights dim through the window. He crossed his lawn and jogged up Cal’s walkway. 

Cal patted the step beside him and Billy took a seat, giving his neighbor a nervous smile. 

Billy heard a huff from behind. Scotty had his face pressed against the screen, and he bared his teeth when Billy waved at him. 

Cal put his cigarette out in a tray beside him. 

“Home late?” he asked. 

“Long day.” 

“Mhmm? A good day?” Cal’s expression was kind, genuinely curious, and Billy’s heart skipped a beat because he couldn’t remember the last time someone asked him how his day was.

“Sort of,” he said slowly. “Last day of rehearsal, so it was really busy. Opening night is tomorrow.”

“Oh boy,” Cal looked concerned. “You worried about it?”

“I dunno,” Billy chuckled. “Rehearsal was tough, but I think we can pull it off.”

“That’s good.” Cal smiled.

Billy nodded, biting his nails, hesitating. He told Pete he wasn’t going to invite friends, but maybe…

“It’s um, it’s free to the public,” he said in a rush, face heating up. “It’s a musical, I dunno if you like that kind of thing, but if you do, um, you should check it out.”

Cal looked surprised. “Oh, yeah, I do! What, um, what time does it start? If I’m not working I’d love to go.”

Billy stared at him. “7 o’clock,” he said after a beat. 

Cal smiled. “7 o’clock. I’ll try to make it.”

Later that night, Billy sat cross-legged on his small, springy bed, flipping through a book Pete had lent him about American musicals, Aerosmith playing loud enough to drown out voices from downstairs. 

A soft knock made him flinch; Max or Susan. He stood, slipping the book under his pillow just in case it was Dad, and opened the door. 

“Hey,” Max murmured. Her face looked pale, making her freckles stand out and her red hair look even brighter than normal. She pushed passed him and sat on the bed.

“Sure, come on in.” He eased the door shut and turned, glaring at her with his arms crossed. 

She glared back at him halfheartedly, wavering, looking like she might break down in a moment. 

His gut twisted, and he thought it might be with pity and probably was with guilt.

“What do you want?” he sighed. 

“They’re arguing,” she said hoarsely. She looked at her lap, eyes filling with tears. “Can I just stay here for a minute?”

“Go to _your_ room.”

“Billy -”

“Max, this is my room,” he snapped, anger flaring, he didn’t know why, and a moment after he did his stomach clenched again, and this time he was certain it was guilt. 

“I hate you,” Max whispered, and she was crying now, silently, her face going from pale white to pink.

“I know.” Billy closed his eyes, a lump rising painfully in his throat. _I do too,_ he wanted to say, to shout. _I hate me too._

“You’re _mean_ ,” Max’s voice wavered. She rubbed her eyes angrily. “You’re always so mean to me.”

“I know.” 

“It’s not my fault, ok?” her voice rose, and he wanted to shush her; he glanced nervously at the closed bedroom door, but the voices below were still raised, higher than before.

“It’s not my fault. I hate it here too, I hate him too.” Her lip trembled and she broke then, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. 

Billy deflated, crossing the room in three quick strides, sinking onto the creaky bed beside her. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, tears springing to his eyes. 

Max looked up, face puffy, staring at him in disbelief. 

“I don’t - I know it’s not,” he faltered, rubbing tears away with the heel of his hand wearily. “Let’s not fight. It’s always so loud, everyone’s always fucking fighting here.”

He wasn’t sure what to do, couldn’t remember the last time he’d been comforted. He went to put an around around his little sister, lost his nerve, and ended up mussing up her hair with his hand. 

Max swatted at him, and she laughed, tearful but genuine. 

Billy lay back on the small bed, legs dangling off, and closed his eyes, feeling peaceful for the first time in a very long time.

Max ruffled about, the bed creaking, and lay down perpendicular to Billy, resting the back of her head on his stomach. 

Billy smiled. “Ha,” he said. 

He felt Max turn. 

“What?”

He cracked open one eye, lifting his head slightly. “It’s a theater game. I laugh once, then you laugh twice, then I laugh three times, and you keep going.”

Max snorted. “Why?”

“I guess, I don’t know, actually.” He lay back down.

“Ha ha,” Max said. 

Billy grinned. “Ha ha ha.”

“Ha ha ha ha!”

“Ha ha ha ha _ha_!” he finished with a flourish. 

“Ha hah -” Max broke into a fit of giggles. “This is so stupid!”

“You’re so stupid,” Billy said lightly. He sat up, nudging her, and she sat too, wiping tears of laughter now from her eyes. 

“I’m going to the show tomorrow,” she said after a moment. “Me and Lucas and Dustin and Mike. To see Will.”

Billy smiled, feeling it brighten his eyes. “You’re gonna love it, lots of singing and blood and monstrous plants.”

“Gross.” Max made a face. 

“You’ll be scared,” Billy warned her, teasing. Max stuck her tongue out. 

“No I won’t.”

“ _And the plaaaaants proceeded to grow, and grow_ ,” he sang, voice deep. Max laughed and punched him. He grabbed her wrist, holding it up, and tickled her. “ _And began what they came here to do, which was essentially to eat Hawkins!_ ” 

“Get off!” she laughed, pushing him away with her free hand. 

“I’m serious, Max, look out.” He grinned. 

He arrived at five on opening night. Two hours before the curtains would draw. 

It was _utter_ chaos. The actors moved about the stage like lost sheep, losing their props, missing half their costumes. Student council members desperately tried to herd everyone. Barb ran passed him with her arms laden with fake body parts, Jonathan struggled to get the giant plant puppet to fit behind the curtain, Pete wobbled on the ladder as he tried to hang up the _Mushnik_ sign. 

He searched for Nancy amongst the chaos. 

After a moment he found her, sitting in a corner, holding the string lights, which were plugged in and not at all lit despite their best efforts, and looking like she was close to tears. 

He approached her cautiously. “Nancy?”

She looked wildly at him, eyes red-rimmed, hair falling from her ponytail haphazardly.

“Billy,” she moaned. “Oh my God, Billy. These _fucking_ lights.” 

She hung her head and sniffled. “This is a fucking disaster.”

“Hey.” Billy crouched down beside her, raised a hand and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, it’ll, uh, it’ll all be ok, right?”

She shook her head, eyes watering. “No, no. We _need_ these lights, for _Suddenly Seymour_ . If we don’t have the lights the whole mood is ruined, Billy, it’s _ruined._ ”

“Ok, alright.” He nodded, patted her shoulder. He looked around for Jonathan, or Barb, but both had disappeared in the cacophony of people. “Can we, I dunno, use other lights?”

Nancy snapped her head up, staring at him as if she just realized he was there. “ _Billy.”_

He swallowed nervously. 

“Billy, oh my God! You have a car!” She grabbed the lapels of his leather jacket, shaking him enthusiastically.

“Yes?”

“I need you to do something for me, ok? Something really important.” 

“What?” Billy asked cautiously. He still couldn’t find Jonathan in the crowd. He thought he saw Barb’s red hair, but she disappeared in a flash. 

“I need you to pick up some lights for me. Can you do that?”

“Sure, anything.”

“They’re at Steve Harrington’s house, do you know where that is?”

Billy stared at her. “At - where?”

“Steve Harrington’s house.”

Billy’s brain seemed to be working much slower than usual. “At - at Steve’s?”

“Here.” Nancy let got of his jacket, fumbling around in her pockets for a pen. She found it and grabbed his hand, scribbling the address over his palm, giving him directions as she wrote. 

“He should be home, just tell him it’s for me, ok? Ok, Billy? Can you do that? Please?”

“Ok,” he said weakly. 

Nancy threw her arms around him, giving him a brief but surprisingly strong hug. 

“Thank you, _seriously_ thank you!”

“Ok.”

Moments later, he sat in his car, staring at his palm. 

It wasn’t as if he needed the directions. He’d be lying if he said he never drove by on a night cruise or took the long way home from practice, just to get a wistful glance at the long driveway, the green and impeccable lawn, the big house, perfect picket fence, and mail box adorned with the golden letters “H - A - R - R - I - N - G - T - O - N”. 

But this… He delicately traced the house number on his palm with the tip of his forefinger, in awe… to be _invited_ , to go with purpose… 

“I can do this,” he said aloud to himself, though he felt sweaty, and his hand shook as he stuck the keys in the ignition. “I’ve got this.”

He started the car, heart pounding wildly, and the Camaro roared to life, as if agreeing with him. 

“Music,” he whispered, running a hand over his face. He shakily opened the glove box, sifting through tapes and pulling out an Aerosmith. 

_Help me, Joey._

_Pandora’s Box_ started, and he turned the music up, shifting into drive and telling himself it was a normal nighttime drive, nothing to be nervous about. 

Too soon, far too soon he was on Steve’s road, nearing Steve’s house, and pulling up Steve’s driveway, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. 

He turned the car off, sitting for a minute, willing his hand to stop shaking. 

“Do it for Nancy,” he murmured, steeling himself. “For Pete, for the kids, for Skid Row.”

He stepped out of the car, walked slowly up the steps and stood at the front door. He reached out, hand trembling, and rang the doorbell. 

It chimed, deep, like a church bell, throughout the house. Billy barely heard it over the pounding in his ears. 

A moment later, _too soon_ , and the front door swung open. 

Steve looked surprised, naturally. He wore sweatpants - and _God_ they looked so soft Billy wanted to worship them -, another too tight t-shirt, and mismatched socks, one red and white striped, the other electric blue, and for some reason the socks made Billy’s heart soar.

“Hey,” Steve breathed. 

“Hi,” Billy stuttered. 

“Um.” Steve shifted from foot to foot, stripes, blue, stripes, blue. “Can I help you?”

“I,” Billy began. He swallowed, mouth feeling too dry. “I came for the lights. The string lights. I mean, um, Nancy asked me to come. And pick up the lights. Which you have.”

He wanted to punch himself. 

“The lights,” Steve trailed off, looking lost, and then he seemed to understand. “Oh! Right, Joyce’s. Yeah, I have them I’ll just…” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing at the house. 

“Wanna come in? I have to grab them.” Steve took a step back, holding the door open. 

Billy had thought about this moment far too often, and when he stepped across the threshold he had a brief moment of panic that the house wouldn’t let him in, as if he were a vampire and the door was wreathed in garlic, or else God or the universe of maybe even the house itself deemed him unworthy. 

He stepped in, scuffed boots looking out of place on the clean, springy carpet. 

Steve shut the door. He moved to stand beside Billy; their fingers brushed and Steve blushed. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Um, welcome to my home. Sorry, it’s a lot.”

 _A lot_ , Billy echoed inwardly, taking it all in. It was a lot, the clear wealth, the vast size of it, but none of that held a candle to the fact that he was in Steve’s house, standing beside Steve, so close he could smell his shampoo, so close he could see that Steve’s hair was half dry, the luckiest water droplets in the world clinging to dark tendrils of Steve’s delicate hair. 

“Mom and Dad are out, anniversary,” Steve said, following Billy’s gaze and tucking his hair behind his ear self-consciously. He shoved his hand into his sweatpants pockets, shifting his feet again.

He was so awkward, and Billy had never wanted to kiss anyone as badly as he wanted to kiss Steve. 

“So, the lights?” he coughed, licking his lips, which tingled at the previous thought. 

“Oh, right, yeah.” Steve laughed awkwardly, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck. Billy eyed the movement, the way Steve’s fingers knotted briefly in his thick hair, the way his arms flexed and the way his shirt rose a bit, uncovering a thin strip of soft tummy that Billy wanted to bury his face in. 

“Gimme a sec. Um, you can grab a seat, if you wanna.” He gestured at the dining room table, the ornate, polished wood chairs. 

He disappeared up the stairs, feet heavy on the steps. Moments later, Billy heard a door creak open, the sound of boxes being shifted, rifled through. 

He stood, stomach twisting in knots, fingertips feeling tingly. He put his hands in his pockets, crossed his arms, scuffed his toe at a lonely carpet tuft, taller than the rest. 

Something crashed above and he heard Steve swear. His lips twitched.

The door upstairs closed, and Steve’s feet appeared first, then the rest of him, carrying a cardboard box labeled “X - MAS”.

He set the box on the dining room table, swept a lock of hair out of his eyes. 

“Here you go.” Steve opened the box, pulling out a section of tangled string lights. “They’re the rainbow ones, but Nance knows.”

He stared at the lights in his hand, seeming like he was miles away for a moment, somewhere else, apart from Billy. After a minute he shook his head, lips twitching into a tiny smile. 

“Tell her she can keep them,” he said. “Not sure why I ended up with these in the first place.”

Billy swallowed, unsure of what to say. 

“Sorry, I forgot, you weren’t,” Steve faltered. He shook his head again. “Never mind.”

Billy nodded. He had no idea what Steve was going on about, but he clung on to every word anyway. It struck him that these were the most words they’d exchanged in months. 

Steve scratched his nose, looked around the room as if searching for small talk. Billy wanted to help, offer him an olive branch, but he couldn’t seem to find his voice, heart in his throat.

“Um, how’s the play been?” 

“Good.” Billy winced inwardly, his voice sounded weak and squeaky.

“Good.” Steve nodded, looked down at his feet. 

“Are you,” Billy lost his footing, swallowed hard and tried again. “Are you coming?”

Steve looked to confused.

“To the show. I mean, are you gonna see it, at some point?” 

Billy could feel his face getting red and he wanted to kick himself. 

“Oh, yeah, I think so!” He smiled again, small, and even its size lit up his face, brown eyes warm. Billy wanted to memorize it, commit those pink lips, dimples, freckles, beautiful brown eyes to memory, so that he could revisit this moment and almost believe that he could draw something so striking, something like being kissed by sunshine or bathed in starlight, as that smile from Steve. 

“Not tonight,” Steve continued, unaware, and Billy thanked the world for the fact that Steve couldn’t hear his heart beating a thousand beats a minute. “But next week, definitely.”

Billy nodded, voice crawling back into his throat again, traitorous. 

Steve picked at a loose string on the hem of his t-shirt. 

“So,” he started. “Are you, um, gonna be there next week?”

Billy nodded quickly. He hadn’t planned on it, but now it felt like the only place in the world he needed to be. 

“Cool.” Steve tucked a piece of brown hair behind his ear, giving Billy a half smile. 

“Maybe I’ll see you there,” Billy said in a rush, voice sounding too hopeful. His heart pounded and his face burned, and something flipped in his stomach when Steve’s cheeks turned pink. 

“Cool,” Steve said again. “I mean, yeah, that, that would be cool. Are you working?”

“Hm?” Billy tilted his head, his brain processing things so much slower in Steve’s presence. 

“Are you working the show? Or can you sit in the audience?”

“Oh. The audience, I guess.”

“Do you wanna,” Steve ran his fingers through his hair, looking at the ground. “Do you wanna sit together?”

“Yes,” Billy said breathlessly, probably too quickly, but he didn’t care, because Steve smiled at him shyly, blinked at him from beneath those thick eyelashes. 

Reluctantly, Billy picked up the X-MAS box. He knew he’d been gone far too long; the gilded, antique clock on the wall said it was 6:15, which meant that Nancy could be having a heart attack from the absence of string lights. 

“I should go,” he said, though every cell in his body told him to stay. “Play starts soon.”

“Right, sorry.” Steve opened the front door, held it for Billy. “I hope it goes well. I’m sure I’ll hear about it.”

“Thanks,” Billy chuckled. He hesitated on the front steps, soaked in one last look at Steve, leaning against the door frame, bathed in light from indoors, absolutely angelic. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Gotta see the show,” Steve smiled. 

Billy arrived at the middle school gym at 6:25, having sped like a madman back to the school, half out of nerves for opening night, half out of elation that he had somehow, miraculously, landed a date with Steve Harrington.

He walked into the gym, carrying the X-MAS box, almost expecting the stage to be on fire. It wasn’t, not physically. But Barb spotted him first and swooped in. 

“Where were you?!” she cried. “Nancy’s practically having a panic attack.”

Jonathan appeared at her side, camera dangling from his neck, purple circles under his eyes. 

“Are those the lights?” he asked wearily. 

From the other side of the room - she must’ve had incredible hearing - Nancy spun, spotted Billy, and stormed over. 

“Oh no,” Jonathan murmured, and Barb hid behind Billy, gripping the back of his jacket like a lifeline. 

“ _Billy!”_ Nancy said shrilly. “Where the _hell_ were you?”

Billy held the box tightly, almost like a shield. 

“Steve’s,” he said weakly. 

Jonathan smirked at Barb, who Billy heard giggle over his shoulder. 

“Steve,” Nancy whispered murderously, stopping in front of Billy, the box like a barrier between them. “I’ll kill him, _Steve,_ is now really the time to be -”

Billy, who desperately wanted to know why Jonathan and Barb were winking at him, never got to figure out what Nancy thought it wasn’t Steve’s time to be doing whatever it was Steve was doing. Nancy spotted the box in his arms and her face lit up like, well, Christmas lights. 

“The lights!” she cried happily. She grabbed the box, hugging it to her as if it were the messiah. 

She darted away, bounding onto the stage. 

Barb let go of Billy’s jacket, shaking her head in wonder. “I thought you were a goner.”

Jonathan smiled at him sympathetically, and the two followed Nancy. 

The minutes flew by, somehow, miraculously, nothing caught on fire, all stages of the man-eating plant were accounted for, no one lost their costumes, and Pete didn’t fall from the ladder. Too soon, they were gathered backstage, the actors pacing nervously, murmuring their songs, scanning scripts last minute. Nancy and Barb and a few others ran about, double checking that all the props were in the right spots, the music was queued, and the set was in place. Jonathan sat beside Will, whispering words of encouragement. 

Billy peeked out from behind the curtain, he couldn’t help it. The lights were dim, and the audience buzzed. He squinted, spotting Max and her friends in the front row, as well as Joyce Byers and the police chief. The latter turned around in his seat, whispering to a couple seated behind him. Billy recognized them, and his heart skipped a beat. It was Cal, wearing a blue uniform, seated beside the tall figure from several nights ago, who, it just clicked for Billy now, was the man in the photos on Cal’s wall, and the owner of the second set of slippers in the bedroom. 

Billy drew back behind the curtain, checking his watch. Five minutes until show time. 

He found Pete amongst the ensemble and nudged him gently with his shoulder. Pete grinned at him. 

“Three minutes,” he whispered excitedly. 

The music started, and Nancy, as well as Will and several other actors, looked as green as the plants. 

“Oh, lord,” Nancy whispered. 

The cast and crew quivered, clung onto her words, holding their breath collectively. 

“Places,” Nancy murmured, and the actors sprung silently into action. 

Pete gripped Billy’s elbow gently, guiding him further behind the curtain. Jonathan disappeared, taking place in the wings, camera at the ready, Barb following, stuffing extra rolls of film into her pocket. The student council, sans Nancy and Pete, sat in circle backstage, breaking out a deck of cards. 

The lights blared, the curtains drew, and the silence washed over the audience. 

Somehow, it was seamless. None of the props disappeared, the music and lights flared on time, even Will remembered his lines. 

When _Suddenly Seymour_ started Nancy buried her face in Billy’s shirt. Pete, holding the end of the string lights and an extension cord, shut his eyes tightly and held his breath, plugging them in. They blinked to life, rainbow, but every bulb lit up, and Audrey started signing. 

Nancy wrapped her arms around Billy, breathing deeply. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, and Billy wasn’t sure if she was thanking him, Steve, God above, or Mr. Alan Menken himself. 

And, as quickly as it came, it ended, the lights went up, the audience stood, applauding, and the curtains closed. 

Afterwards, the stage was abuzz, family and friends flocking to their little stars. This was the part Billy dreaded, for a moment feeling utterly alone, though it passed in a flash.

Will’s mom was in tears, while Jonathan and the police chief beamed with pride, and his friends flocked, showering him with flowers and love, Max pausing to throw her arms around Billy and dash towards Will. Pete stood with his parents, waving at Billy enthusiastically. 

“Hey, kid!” Cal said brightly, and clapped Billy on the shoulder. “That was awesome!”

“My neighbor,” he explained to the tall man at his side, who had square glasses, a mustache that was almost exactly the same as Cal’s, and a goofy grin. 

Billy stayed to help clean when most everyone had cleared out - Max caught a ride home with the Sinclairs - primarily because he didn’t want to go home, didn’t want the night to be over just yet. 

Nancy, Jonathan, Barb, and he were the only ones left, and when they shut and locked the doors to the gym, Nancy stopped, turning to Billy.

“Oh!” she said breathlessly. “I almost forgot!” 

She rifled through her bookbag for a moment, pulling out a sheet of paper.

“Here you go.” Nancy handed him the paper. 

He took it, tilting his head at her in confusion. 

“I signed it,” she said. “And wrote out all your hours on the back. You can turn it in to Carter tomorrow morning.”

“Right.” He nodded, staring at the form in his hands. Nancy had signed the bottom, in delicate cursive. He swallowed, a strange lump rising in his throat. 

Somewhere along the way he’d forgotten why he was here in the first place. 

“So, thank you,” Nancy continued. “I know you didn’t want to be here, but you were really helpful and we all appreciate your time.”

Billy nodded again, still staring at the form. 

“Pete said you might want to help out in the future,” Nancy said kindly, continuing when he didn’t speak. “We’d love to have you.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “If that’s ok.”

“Of course.” Nancy smiled. 

She glanced across the dark and now nearly empty parking lot, to where Jonathan and Barb waited by Barb’s car, waving to Billy when he looked up. 

“I guess it’s time to go home,” she said, hesitating. “Do you need a ride?”

“No,” Billy shook his head, pointed to the Camaro on the opposite side of the parking lot. “Car’s over here.”

“Oh yeah,” Nancy laughed. “Goodnight, Billy.”

She crossed the lot, the three of them climbing into the car and driving off.

He was alone now. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked slowly to his car, watching his feet. He didn’t want to go; he didn’t want it to end. 

But it wasn’t really over, he supposed. He slowly unlocked his car, climbed in and shut the door. It wasn’t over, not really, for next week shone like the promise of sunshine; he’d see Pete in class, Nancy and even Barb and Jonathan, and Steve, and _God_ Steve Harrington, he’d see Steve, he had a date with Steve. 

He had to go home, but Max was there, and across the fence were Cal and his partner and Scotty. 

He was alone now, but not really. 

He fished in the glove box for a tape, started the engine, and drove. 

  



End file.
